


his head in the clouds, his heart in the stars

by ninemoons42



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A Tribute to Anton Yelchin, Canon Compliant, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Star Trek: Beyond spoilers, friendship fic, possibly Chekov is experiencing depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Chekov post-Star Trek Beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	his head in the clouds, his heart in the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Anton Yelchin.
> 
> First fic in this fandom, so I have no idea if I've got my Chekov voice right.

A quiet chime next to his bed, and the voice of the _Enterprise-A_ murmuring to him. The start of his shift and his duties for the day. He was going to be shadowed by some of the newer crewmembers, recruited more or less right from the classrooms of _Yorktown_. Then a mid-shift recalibration of the dilithium containment chambers. A reminder for one of Uhura’s xenolinguistics and starship communications lectures at the end of her shift, and the standing once-every-six-days invitation to chess with Spock.

A full day. A day of sitting and running and learning and that didn’t even count the plans that he needed to make for his next free day. A day of projected peace aboard the bridge as they pushed for the transition zone toward New Vulcan -- there was a courtesy call of some kind, he thought, or was that for the commemoration ceremony for the death of Ambassador Spock? He couldn’t remember. He knew about it, but he couldn’t remember.

And Pavel Andreievich Chekov lay atop his bunk, stared at the friendly white glow of the ceiling in his little room, and there was a kind of emptiness just beneath his heart. A kind of gaping empty hole. Nothing as magnificent as that map he’d been making notes on with Sulu, of the intricate blackness and the protostars of the Coalsack Nebula in the distant Milky Way. This was the kind of darkness that meant his breakfast would taste like ashes. The kind of darkness that made him glad he had locked away the rest of his liquor supply -- though he still didn’t know how the CMO had managed to nick one of his bottles -- but what was the point in asking? What was the point of getting an answer? The universe was full of terrible questions and worse answers, of what-might-have-beens and the inescapable fear of the next day.

Chekov closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t feel the leak of tears towards his temples, disappearing into his hair. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit up. He put on a cheerful voice, a cheerful mask. “Computer, please inform Ensign Campanella I’ll be taking her place shortly on the bridge.”

“Ensign Campanella reports no unusual occurrences during her shift at the helm,” was the brisk reply. 

Chekov nodded, though his heart wasn’t in it, and ducked into the sonics before reaching into his closet for a fresh set of clothes.

Onto the bridge of the _Enterprise-A_ on which a quiet shift had passed: and as he sank into his usual position Chekov felt the twinge of pain at the back of his neck that meant he was holding his shoulders too stiffly. He’d be sore by the end of the shift. Nothing new about that, either. A pain that he’d long since learned to live with, sitting up straight to make himself look older and wiser and more experienced.

Which he was, technically, three years into this cruise. He already knew he’d be signing up for another one, and maybe even the next one after that. Only why did that make him want to hide in a corner? Why did that make him feel like he was walking an edge over a yawning darkness that had opened up at his feet?

“Nothing to report, sir,” Ensign Campanella said: and she had iron-gray skin and hair, and she drew herself up to her full height of exactly five feet as she stood next to him -- and the thing that made her different was that she looked so relaxed anyway. He envied her. True, she’d been on the ship for a shorter time -- but that meant a shorter list of possible nightmares. (He wasn’t sure if her species dreamed. He didn’t dare ask.)

Still. Officer’s behavior. He forced himself to meet her eyes and forced himself to feel confident, so she would feel confident as well. “Thank you for a job well done.”

A brief bright blinding smile.

He really envied her.

And -- out to the black, once again.

Readouts and tactical displays and the constant hum of the ship. Nowhere silent on the _Enterprise_ , even when this one was new and -- he knew this for himself -- much better, so much more powerful, than the one that had died on Altamid. Chekov tried, as usual, and failed, as usual, to ignore the cold of the bridge. Goosebumps on his skin despite his sleeves and an additional shirt beneath the gold shirt with its rank stripes. 

At the end of the shift his throat was clogged with emptiness, with a needling prickle. He tried to swallow past it -- tried to force it down his throat with an extra-large helping of strawberry custard -- all he had to show for it was sugar-grit on his teeth and he thought about washing it down with a few tumblers of _something_ when there was a hand on his shoulder and a hand wrapping around his wrist.

He blinked, and looked.

Scotty on his left and Uhura on his right, and he didn’t fight them as they gently led him onto one of the emptier decks, into one of the emptier rec rooms.

“Don’t think you can fool us, laddie, anyone with eyes can see you’ve not been at your best.” But there was nothing admonishing about Scotty’s words. Just worry, and even that was overshadowed by the kindness that sat in the lines of his face.

Chekov looked at Uhura, who smiled evenly at him and wrapped a blanket around her own shoulders. Where had she got it from? “If you want to talk to us,” she was saying, “we’re here to listen. If you don’t want to talk to us, we’re here anyway.”

He didn’t think he had the words until he opened his mouth and then -- “Have you ever woken up and felt that something _wrong_ had happened somewhere? Like the end of the world, like someone dying, like bad news from home -- not that I’ve gotten anything, my parents are doing just fine, they’re arguing about going away for the summer holidays.”

“I can think of warm places to visit,” Scotty said, looking thoughtful. “I like being warm. Live in a place where you freeze your toes off every day -- I’ve done that and it’s not for me.”

Chekov watched as Uhura rolled her eyes fondly. “As you tell us every time you apply for shore leave.”

“Can’t blame a man for having preferences.”

He almost wanted to smile at the two of them. That prickling feeling was still there -- he thought that it would never really leave him, not when he’d been feeling it all day -- but it was duller, somehow, less noticeable. 

“Chekov,” Uhura said.

He blinked, and looked at her. “Yes?”

“Have you talked to Len about this?”

He shook his head.

“It _is_ his job to take care of us. Not just -- injuries,” and one of her shoulders hitched up and down, partly dislodging her blanket. “He is also supposed to look after our minds.”

“I don’t have a problem with my head, I am fit to do my tasks,” Chekov said, protesting.

“Yes. I believe in that. I believe in _you_. So I worry.” 

“ _We_ worry,” Scotty said. 

Again, Uhura’s hand around his wrist. “I want to help. Will you let us help?”

And she was sitting next to the huge windows, and unfamiliar stars threw their light into her face, and he felt like he could be safe, sitting with her and with Scotty.


End file.
